


those who build and break us

by orphan_account, togamis



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abuse of a Minor, Angst, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Hand Wavy Medical Procedures, Starvation, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-10-18 10:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17579168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account, https://archiveofourown.org/users/togamis/pseuds/togamis
Summary: He is more than your stardust. He will rise from your throne of lies and he will live again.(bucky has a list of his mistakes. its a shame no one can read it)





	1. chapter 1

“Peter!” Bucky yells. “You gotta put your shoes in the basket when you take them off!”

Peter groans. “I’m busy! I have homework, and stuff!”

“Shoes!”

“I’ll do it in a sec,” Peter grumps.

Bucky appears at his doorway, holding a stack of newspapers and what looks like a postcard with some hand painted picture of a beach on it. “Now, please. You know mom isn’t walking so good, and Rebecca is getting on her nerves, kid.”

Peter pouts. “I know.”

“And you’re not stupid, are you? And I know you care about them. So please, just do this?” Bucky asks. “It’ll be a huge help.”

“I hate you,” Peter mutters, rolling off of his bed and over to the doorway anyway. He glares at the triumphant smile Bucky gives him. “I really, really do. You’re the worst. You’re going to hell.”

“Don’t say stuff like that,” Bucky says. “Thanks, bud.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter says dismissively. He wouldn’t say it, but making Bucky proud is really great. His brother is one of the most important people in his life, and Peter wouldn’t know where he’d be without him. It’s not exactly uncommon knowledge that Peter has some sort of hero-worship for his brother, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind.

“What homework do you have?” Bucky asks, following him down the stairs and watching him pick up the pairs of shoes scattered across the entrance hall.

“Um. Math?” Peter offers, sounding doubtful.

Bucky chuckles. “You don’t sound so sure. You want any help with it?”

Peter shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. ‘Sides, didn’t you have some sorta date tonight? With what's-her-name. Connie?”

Red dapples Bucky’s cheekbones and he grins. “Maybe.”

Peter wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ll lie to mom for you if you want to stay at hers tonight.”

Bucky bursts out laughing. “Is that your attempt to get me out of the house today? Sorry bud, you’re out of luck. Connie’s got a curfew, and it’s not like I’m about to leave you and Rebs, is it?” He bumps his shoulder into Peter’s. “Thanks, though, kid. You got my back.”

“I’ve always got your back,” Peter says earnestly. Bucky just smiles at him. He looks really proud.

“I know, bud,” Bucky says. “I know. Here, take these for me? I’ve gotta run.” He hands Peter the newspapers. They’re nothing new, but Peter finds himself staring at the black and white photos of warzones with morbid curiosity.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, Pete?” Bucky asks, quietly, after they’ve put Rebecca to bed. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Sure,” Peter says, distracted, “What about?”

“Here, you gotta promise not to say anything to ma, or to Reb, or anyone, okay?” Bucky says. Peter glances over at him, and takes in the way he’s twisting his fingers together.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

Bucky nods. “Come on. Let’s go outside.”

“But it’s dark,” Peter tries. Bucky doesn’t let up, so he sighs and follows Bucky out to the front step.

“Listen,” Bucky says. “And don’t say anything till I’ve finished, okay?”

“What do you mean? It’s not like you’re aboutta tell me you’re dying, are you?” Peter asks. “Why are you so worked up?”

Bucky swallows. “You know I love you, right? You and Becca, and ma and dad. You’re my best guy, kid.”

“I know.”

“Well, I’ve. I’ve enlisted, Pete.”

“Enlisted where?” Peter asks, because his heart is in his mouth and he really doesn’t want to think about this. “What do you mean enlisted?”

“You know what I mean,” Bucky says. “I ship out in two weeks time.”

“Ship out?” Peter repeats.

Bucky sniffs and drags a hand across his eyes. “Yeah. 107th.”

“Why?” Peter asks. His voice breaks.

“Because I have to,” Bucky says, shakily. “This is a good thing, Pete. I get to- to protect our country, and protect you and Bec, and get some more money coming in. It’ll be- it’ll be fine.”

“You don’t have to!” Peter says, trying not to shout. “How could you do this?”

“Peter-”

“Why can’t you stay here?!” He exclaims. “We need you. _I_ need you!”

“No,” Bucky says. Quietly, softly. “You don’t need me. You gotta step up now, kid. You gotta protect Rebecca while I’m gone. I know you can do this, Peter.”

“Who’s gonna protect _me_?” Peter asks. His voice sounds wrecked, distraught, coated with tears.

“You don’t need protecting,” Bucky whispers. “You’re so strong, kid. Stronger than me.”

Peter sucks in a wobbly breath. “I don’t want you to go. What if you don’t come home? I know what happens out there, I’m not stupid. What if all we have left of you is your big toe, or a tooth? Or just a vial of blood that they scraped up from the ground where you got _blown up_?!”

“Don’t talk like that,” Bucky says sharply. “I’ll be fine. I gotta do this, Pete. If I don’t, I’ll just get drafted anyway. It’s better like this. I’ll come home after the war. I promise.”

“What if it doesn’t end?” Peter sobs. “I don’t want you to. I want you to stay here. You have to stay here, Bucky, please.”

“C’mere,” Bucky says, pulling Peter into a hug. “I have to do this, kid.”  
“No, you don’t.”

“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Bucky whispers. “You’ll be fine. You can do this, kid. I believe in you.”

“Not without you,” Peter murmurs into Bucky’s shoulder.

“Yeah, you can,” he says. “You always can.”

Peter shakes his head. “No, I _can’t_.”

“You can,” Bucky insists. “It won’t be as bad as you think, bud. You can send me letters, and i can send stuff back. It’ll be fine.”

“Letters aren’t the same,” Peter says, “You can’t just go like this.”

“Please don’t make this harder than it has to be, Pete,” Bucky sighs. “I’m not just going. I’m leaving in two weeks. You’ll be fine without me, kid. You will.”

“I won’t,” Peter wipes away his tears furiously. “I’m just- I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to die. You’ll get back and you won’t be Bucky anymore, have you seen those pictures of the soldiers after fighting? They’re all empty and jumpy and what if you end up like that? I don’t want you to go. You can’t go.”

Bucky squeezes him tighter. “I’ll always be Bucky, Pete. I’ll always be Bucky.”

They sit on the front step for most of the night, watching the street lights reflect off of the windows. When he blinks, the condensation looks like blood. Peter wipes his tears away and tries not to feel like everything is falling apart in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya! im ell! thanks for reading my chapter of this fic  
> im super excited for it! 
> 
> if you want to find more of me, you can check out my [tumblr](https://spideysstark.tumblr.com) or my ao3 (which you can find.. somewhere on this page.)
> 
> thanks for reading! let us know what you think!


	2. chapter 2

Two weeks passed with the blink of an eye **.**

In those two weeks, Peter got the worst news of his life-- twice. Peter couldn’t bring himself to be very surprised; wherever James went, Steve went too. It still hurt though, being given the news. Steve was scarily like Bucky in the way he took Peter aside and explained the situation. He’d been rejected twice, three times, but had met a doctor who was willing to help him. He’d have to go away for awhile, especially if the serum worked. Bucky couldn’t know- it was a secret and a surprise. Steve didn’t want to get Bucky’s hopes up, which was understandable. Peter swore to secrecy, heart breaking once again. He was going to be truly, utterly alone-- and that was terrifying. 

The first time Peter Barnes meets Steve Rogers was by  _ accident. _ Complete and total accident, Peter holds this sentiment to this day. His Ma had wanted him to bring some leftover medicine for Sarah Rogers’ son, Bucky’s best friend. Ma didn’t want him going anywhere near Steve even though he’d been up to date on his shots, something about ‘couldn’t stand if one of my boy’s got sick too, it’s bad enough James is with him all the time, bless his soul.’ Jamie talked a lot about Steve; how he fought too much for hisown good and hated bullies with a passion. Peter had wanted to meet him for quite awhile but had never gotten the chance. 

  
Peter approached the little white house across the road, hold the package to his five year old chest. It wasn’t heavy, but the glass inside was delicate about would break if dropped. As Peter approached the door, he heard whispering; well, what he thought to be whispering, but badly. That was strange-- Steve was supposed to be at the ‘ospital, his mama had gently explained, where people went when they were sick. Peter knocked gently, the voices stopping instantly. 

“Jamie?” Peter questioned quietly, shifting from foot to foot. The mental door creaked open, showing his brother and a skinny little blond boy. The boy couldn’t have been much older then Peter, a year or two at most. Jamie took Peter’s arm and gently pulled him inside, shutting the door and taking the package. 

“It’s fom mama. Said it's got mecine for Steve.” Peter whispered to James, shrinking behind him when Steve looked his way. James nodded, thanking Peter and handing the small vial of pills to the boy in question. James seemed to know what he was doing as he led the boy up the stairs and to a room. He motioned to Peter to come along, so come along he did. The introductions were short, James quickly telling Peter to go home so that he didn’t get sick. Peter smiled and waved to Steve, quickly going back home like Jamie had told him to. 

From that day on, Peter and Steve had been great friends; if anything, Peter saw Steve as an older brother. 

Peter didn’t know how he was going to stand being alone.    
Sure, his ma and Becca were great-- but they weren’t Steve and Bucky. Steve had assured him that if everything went right, they’d be together again real soon. For some reason, Peter couldn’t quite believe that. Peter cried when Bucky left, making him  _ promise _ to come back and write letters. He cried when Steve secretly left, making  _ him _ promise to come back if things went wrong. 

Peter decided he needed to help-- needed to do something, especially if both of his brother’s were joining the cause. As if God had heard his plea, a poster at school caught his eye the next day. There was a science competition, the winner being put on a registry for the top university in New York and winning $20. $20… was  _ a lot _ of money. That could feed the three of them for  _ weeks. _ Peter was smart, and there wasn’t any entry fee like normal science fairs. 

He decided not to say anything, not get anyone’s hopes up incase he was being too cocky. So when the day came, he made an excuse to his ma and all but ran out the door with excitement and nerves. Peter had opted to take the test portion of the fair, not having the money nor the time to make anything worth while.  The test was.. well, the test was quite easy. Peter had to wait while they were being graded, the other’s who had taken it alongside him being called in one by one. This took a while, Peter noted, and there were only a few other people. Had he done bad? Had he failed? Peter shook his head of these thoughts, ignoring the familiar churn of anxiety in his stomach. After what seemed to be an eternity, Peter was called into the room. There were four people sitting at the table, and the oldest of them smiled at Peter. 

“Peter Parker, yes?” The man questioned, beckoning Peter over when he nodded. 

“Take a seat, young man. There’s much to discuss.” 

This was starting to sound too much like he had done terribly, and Peter mentally braced himself for the news. The lady who sat across from him was beaming, so Peter decided to take that as a good sign.  The older man took off his glasses, setting the paper on the table and sliding it to Peter.  Taking a deep breath, Peter looks at the mark. 99%. He had gotten ninety nine percent on what was rumored as the  _ hardest science exam in New York. _ Peter felt his heart skip a beat, lips growing into a huge smile. Even if he hadn’t won, Peter was proud, so proud of this mark.

“Congratulations Son. This is the highest mark we’ve seen, well, ever. You’ve gotta instant acceptance into the Science University of New York, and a prize of $20.” The man explained, sliding the crisp bill Peter’s way. The teen in question profusely thanked them, filling out the forms excitedly before leaving. He’d done it- he’d actually done it! Peter practically ran all the way home, bursting in and waving the bill in the air. His ma instantly bursted into tears, Becca soon doing the same thing when she learned what all the commotion was about. It had been a light in the darkness, Peter’s future being secured with a fully paid scholarship Life was good, and he couldn’t wait to tell his brother’s when they finally came home.

Two years later, Peter got the worst news of his life.    
The phone rang at eleven at night. It.. it never rang, especially this late, so Peter knew it must have been important. Ma and Becca were away for the week, having gone up to Ma’s Dad’s house.    
He quickly scrambled towards the phone, lifting it off the receiver with a “Hello?"

Steve’s voice came through, rough and cracky as if he’d been crying. 

“Peter I… I’m so sorry. I couldn’t save him, I tried, God I tried.”    
“Steve? What’s goin on? You’re startin to scare me.” Peter whispered, heart plummeting towards the ground.

“Bucky… Bucky’s dead. He fell off a train up in the mountains.” Steve rushed out, hanging up so that he wouldn’t have to hear Peter’s sobs. 

It took a moment for the news to process in Peter’s brain. the phone slipped from his hand, vision going blurry and knees hitting the floor. His brother, the person he loved the most was… dead. Gone. Not coming back. His chest heaved with sobs, Peter’s body falling to the floor as he cried. Somewhere in the house a window shattered, but Peter couldn’t bring himself to care. Footsteps beating up the stairs, a language he couldn’t understand, then a light coming from a flashlight. Peter pushed himself up to see men he didn’t know, a spike of fear making it’s way through the haze of grief.  He barely had time to react before there was a sharp pinch in his neck, body going lax and consciousness fading. The last thing he heard was a hushed “We’ve secured the mechanic.” spoken in a German accent. Peter resigned himself, finally giving in to the lure of sleep. 


	3. chapter three

 

Bucky wakes up cold, alone, and feeling rather like he’s come home. 

He’s kind of hurting, too, but that’s not out of the ordinary these days. His back aches, and his arm feels like it’s been mauled by some creature ten times bigger than him. His legs feel nonexistent, but he can wiggle his toes. That’s something, at least. 

The bed he’s lying on (tied to, his brain says, but he doesn’t want to think that) is familiar in the most unsettling way. It feels like it should be warm, but isn’t. The room smells like blood and looks more like a jail than it does home. Bucky still feels somewhat at ease. 

“You’re awake!” Someone announces. “Finally. Good morning, Soldier.”

Bucky doesn’t feel like he should be talking. Doesn’t feel like he could talk. He doesn’t answer, something foreboding and cold and horrible bubbling in his gut.

“It’s polite to reply,” the same voice hisses. “Sit up.”

Bucky sits up, even if he didn’t want to. He should obey, his brain says. Bucky can’t trust his brain anymore. 

“I’m Weber,” they say. “You may address me as Ma’am, or Mistress.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Bucky’s mouth says, even though he didn’t move it. She draws the words out of him, clawing down his throat and leaving scratches there.

“Good. Do you know where you are, Soldier?” Weber asks him, pleasantly. She makes it sound like they’re two friends catching up over coffee. 

“No, Mistress.”

She hums. “Do you know who you are, Soldier?”

“Sergeant James Barnes, Mistress. Of the 107th,” he says.

She tuts. “No, no, no. We can’t have this. Come on, up you get.”

“Where are we going?” Bucky asks when her nails dig into his arms, pulling him up and along.

“Never you mind, Soldier,” she tells him. “You won’t remember, anyway.” That makes her laugh. Bucky doesn’t know why. He doesn’t think he wants to. 

 

* * *

 

The next time he wakes up, he’s just there. Breathing. Sitting. He is The Soldier, a blank document. He’s waiting for someone to program him, give him memories and weapons. 

A blank slate. Just what they want. 

Weber is back. “Do you know who you are, darling?” She asks him.

He doesn’t know why she’s asking him that. There’s never been anything to know. He knows how to conduct himself, to obey his superiors, to be seen and not heard. “No, Mistress. I am no one.”

Her smile looks like shark teeth. “Good. We can progress to the next stage, then.” She snaps her fingers, red nails flickering under the lights. “Someone alert the doctors. Have them ready in an hour.”

He doesn’t need to ask why. He shouldn’t. Seen and not heard. Seen and not heard. Her eyes look like blood.

The Mistress turns back to him. “You can sleep now, darling. Then we’ll stitch you up again, hm? You’re in safe hands here, Soldier. I’ll take care of you.”

He doesn’t have a reason not to believe her.

 

* * *

They stuff him full of needles until he feels like a porcupine. Each one pumps something different into him, and he is the perfect vessel for it. He will become what they need him to be. 

It hurts, more than he’s hurt ever before. It burns until his insides have melted and turned to stone. But this is good. They’re making him whole again, making him perfect. He can take pain if he needs to. 

Sometimes, he’ll come back to himself. He’ll remember flickers of a life that isn’t his, shouldn’t be his. Never will be his. They unplug all the needles and they take him to the room that smells like death and sounds like screaming until he screams too.

Then they bring him back to the bed, and they poke and they feel and they stuff him with medication and potions and they start again from the beginning.

It hurts, but he’ll do whatever it takes to be perfect for them. Perfect for the Mistress.

He knows he’s turning into something outside of his control, knows he’s turning into something inhuman. He knows he is a freak of nature. His brain has been blended into something entirely not his and put back somewhere it doesn’t quite fit. 

He is somewhere he doesn’t quite fit. But it’s okay. He’s like plasticine, these days, and he’s being molded to perfection.

 

* * *

 

Another time, after too many days and nights that he hasn’t lived, they pick all of the tubes from his skin and they lead him into a new room, one that looks cleaner than all the rest and smells it too.

The light is blindingly white, brighter than anything he’s ever seen before. There’s a bed in the middle of the room, and to the right of it, a metal tray loaded with meat cleavers and guns and knives and staplers. 

They lie him down on the bed and Mistress holds his hand. Her fingers are creamy and smooth and beautiful next to his, her nails bright against his skin. She tells him to take a deep breath in and to try not to scream and her nails sink into his palms.

He breathes in.

One moment, his arm is there. The next, it isn’t. And that’s okay. It hurts, but the Mistress will take care of him. She’ll make him better. He has to do this for her, be strong for her.

“Good,” she whispers in his ear. Blood on the stone beneath him, painting some morbid melody to a song he doesn’t know. “You’re so good.”

Something gets shoved into his arm - or what’s left of it, and he starts to scream. The Mistress muffles it by shoving a fist into his mouth and he chokes. Wires start sticking themselves to his bone, until it feels like he has a new arm, a better model. 

New and improved, Mistress tells him later. A scientific miracle, a medical mystery. You’ll make history, my darling, she tells him, you’ll be so beautiful.

There’s not reason not to believe her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry bucky i love u????
> 
> im going to try and keep these notes as condensed as possible, because i like to talk at the readers a LOT. ill hit the main points:  
> 1: my chapters arent always this short i promise  
> 2: maybe there will be some semblance of a regular update schedule? please assume if we ever miss a date that its my fault though.  
> 3: thank you so much for reading, me and buck have dedicated fangirl sessions like 'OMG PEOPLE SUBSCRIBED AND BOOKMARKED AND KUDOSED'. you're all awesome and we love u already  
> 4: come say hi on [tumblr!](https://spideysstark.tumblr.com)
> 
> much love, ell xx


	4. chapter four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> graphic descriptions of torture and hand wavy medical procedures. stuff is finally going to start taking off after this chapter, because now we get into the fun stuff. i used google translate for all of these. the four words are hot, cold, alone and mute. anna call’s peter ‘little prisoner’.

When Peter comes to, the first thing he noticed was that he was in a cell. He was dizzy, but decided to risk a peek at opening his eyes. If Peter had to guess, he’d estimate that it was about eight feet by eight feet; big enough so that he could stretch out, but small enough that he couldn’t really walk. There was a window to his back, beaming light into the room. If he turned his head he could see it, but not out it. The second thing he noticed was that he was bound; hands connected to a chain that hung on the wall, and feet connected to one in the floor. The position was a bit uncomfortable, but nothing a little wriggling around couldn’t fix. The cell was grimy and cold. Peter was on a blanket, a thin one, but a blanket nonetheless. A jiggle of the chains showed they had no give, tight and keeping their position. Peter’s heart rate started to speed up, fear quickly coursing it’s way through this viens.

 

This fear only got worse as he heard footsteps approaching, and two people quickly came into view as they walked down the hallway. One was a man who stood at about 5’11. He was buff, and Peter was able to make out more of his details as he approached. The woman, on the other hand, was quite shorter-- maybe only 5’3-5’4-- but wore heels to counteract that. Her heels clicked against the white floor, black standing out against the dim yellow light of the hallway. She had brown hair that was cut sharply at the chin.  The two of them stopped in front of the cage murmuring to themselves in a language Peter couldn’t quite understand. It sounded familiar, but he couldn’t put his tongue on what it was. The man opened the door, the screeching noise harsh against Peter’s ears. The man learned close to Peter, the boy trying to shy away but failing. 

 

“Du wirst Frío. Du wirst caliente. Du wirst solo. Du wirst mudo.” The man mocked, chucking before backing out of the cell. Peter’s face morphed in confusion, looking towards the woman for any sort clarification. She gave him a comforting look before starting, tone gentle and german accent light;

“I see you do not understand German, Peter. This will be reminded soon, I promise. As for what the man here said; he said that you will be Frío. You will be caliente. You will be solo. And finally, you will be mudo.” The spanish flowed off her tongue with ease. She sent him one last comforting look before turning away, murmuring something Peter couldn’t quite catch to the man. The man (who Peter decided to deem as Bob), stood guard, back to Peter. Peter was grateful for the fact that he had some semblance of time. The lady returned when the sun was beginning to set with a plate of food and a key. She nodded to the guard before stepping inside, undoing the locks around Peter’s wrists. She crouched down, setting the plate of steaming white rice and mixed vegetables, along with utensils, onto the blanket. 

“Be careful, kleiner gefangener. It is frío.” A shake of the head.

“Oh, how could I be so rude. I am Anna.” Anna smiled, petting Peter’s head then standing up. She gestured at him to eat and walked out of the cell, stepping into a nearby room. The guard went with her, seemingly trusting Peter not to escape. Peter wasn’t foolish; he knew that they were probably watching him from the other room, eating their own dinner and laughing. His hands shook slightly as he picked up the fork. Peter sent a prayer to whoever existed up there that the food wasn’t drugged, and dug it. The food was bland, but far more than he had ever gotten at home. He finished and pushed the plate away, feeling slightly drowsy. Sometime later the woman came back in, whisking the plate away and reattaching his handcuffs. She muttered a simple “good night.” With a smile, walking down the hallway and striding out the double doors. 

The man, however. The man stayed. He took his place in front of Peter’s cell door once again, this time sitting down in a chair that had been placed off to the side. Peter sighed, head dropping and eyes shutting. Peter leaned his head against the wall, set on trying to get at least a little bit of sleep. 

Then his chains started to hum. 

The shock was small, just a buzz and enough to wake up him. It didn’t take long for Peter to figure out what was going on, and when he did, his heart sunk to the floor.    
They weren’t going to let him sleep.    
From the numerous all nighters he had taken, Peter knew he could go at least a day without rest; it would be the 48 hour mark and on that things would start to get shifty. Peter shook himself awake, wiggling and forcing himself to keep his head up. Peter had to last as long as possible without sleeping-- he didn’t want to get another shock, or worse, piss himself. Instead of sleeping, Peter decided to focus on other things; how the light almost completely gone from the cell, the dim lights in corridor remaining the only source. How he could hear things from outside, rain? The rain was soothing, he thought, before shaking his head. That would only make him more tired, and he needed to conserve his strength.  It got harder as the night went on, Peter jolting himself awake before the cuffs could do a full body shock. He was still going kida strong as the sun slowly crept up and through the window. The guard had switched places with someone else in the night. A little while later, once the sun was completely up, Anna came again. This was his second day, and Peter really hoped he’d get answers. She had a bowl and spoon with her, giving him a fond look as she entered. 

“Good morning, Peter. You doing okay? You look a little tired, yes?” She asked, concerned, and setting the bowl down. 

“Y-yes Miss Anna.” He replied as she unlocked his cuffs. 

“Would I… Would I be able to go to the bathroom?” Peter quickly questioned, looking down as his cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Anna shot a nasty glare towards the now-returned guard, petting Peter’s hair once again.    
“Of course, my kleiner gefangener. Come, stand up.” Anna unlocked the chains around his feet, reattaching lighter handcuffs to his hands. She lead him out of the room and down the hall to a small bathroom, where he quickly relieved himself and washed his hands with the soap and water. She beamed at him as he exited, unlocking his cuffs and leaving him to eat once they were back in the cell. Peter was starting to feel the lure of sleep, the hot porridge not helping him feel more awake. The routine was the same as the last time, Anna parting with “two hours left,  kleiner gefangener. Hang in there.”    
He was shocked one more time before Anna came back, carrying a small cot, a pillow, and another blanket. She set it up, unhooking the chains and leading him over to the bed. 

“Lie down and sleep, kleiner gefangener.” She crooned, attaching the chains above but giving them a bit of leeway so that he could move around. Anna quickly left, sleep taking over Peter in a matter of minutes. Peter woke to the smell of food, blinking his eyes open and immediately feeling both better and worse than he did before. He didn’t know how long he’d slept-- judging by the amount of light in his room, it must have been a while, before sitting up. Anna did the same thing as before, leading him back over to the blanket before allowing him to eat. This continued all through the rest of the day and the next night. 

Sometime in the night, Peter’s head had started buzzing. He wasn’t dehydrated; Anna made sure to give him a glass of water at each meal, making him drink it whether he was thirsty or not. The shocks had begun to get steadily stronger, Peter being shocked three times that night. He felt his will to move, to escape, slowly begin to drain. He was too weak; even if he could escape, he wouldn’t be able to get far. Here he got warm food, and a lot of it. Peter began to lose time, the sun not being there one instant and light shining through the next. Anna continued to come, leading him about their daily routine of the bathroom then food. Peter never felt so happy to see her walking down the hallway than when he did when she came with the cot. he was finally able to rest, sinking into sleep even faster than before. 

Which is why he couldn’t understand why he felt so… terrible when he woke up. He couldn’t remember what he’d had for breakfast, and Peter noticed his movements were quite a bit slower. It took him longer to eat and drink than normal, Anna giving him a look of vague disappointment before leaving without a word. 

Four days of not sleeping and Peter started to hallucinate. It scared him, voices being there when they really weren’t. Voices of his brother and Steve. The shocks got more and more frequent, Peter not even being able to feel them now. Anna kept getting angrier and angrier, finally dragging him out of the cell and down the hallway. He was shoved into a chair as she left the room, and injected with something that felt like pure  _ agony. _ It felt like his blood was boiling, whimpers and screams making their way out of his mouth. 

Peter lasts a week before he begins to beg. He’s told that he’s being punished by Anna, and that if only he was good and stayed awake, they wouldn't hurt him. She told him that there was nothing she could do, that she was sorry and that she had tried everything she could. Anna explained that the punishment was  frío, and if he kept this us, they’d have to move on to caliente. She really didn’t want them to do that to him, because then she wouldn’t be able to see him as often.  By the time the week and a half ended, Peter had burn marks on his wrists and ankles. He was allowed to sleep while they moved him to a different room, and ended up sleeping for two days straight so that his body count counteract what it had been through. The first thing Peter’s brain register’s when he wakes up is  _ white. _

Everything about the room is white. The walls, the ceiling, the floor,  _ everything. _ He thought this was over-- that this was done! Frustration ran through him, causing Peter to slam his hand against the wall. It stung, the side of his hand tingling. There were no more handcuffs or leg cuffs- that meant no more shocking! Peter, for the first time since he had been kidnapped, felt joy; that meant he’d been good! Sure, the room had more of a chill to it, but he could deal. 

Peter hadn’t known, at that moment, just what he’d gotten into.  The routine more or less remained the same. He was brought food three times a day, but was now allowed to sleep as much as he wanted. They gave him shots, but they weren’t like the other ones; these ones made him spacey and much more tired. They made him just want to sleep, so sleep he did.  The punishments started three days later. Peter never knew what he was being punished for, just that he was a very bad boy and that he needed to be better. That if he wanted things to stop hurting, he needed to be better. So Peter tried. The next day, Anna was sent in. She looked quite relieved to see him, quickly sweeping him into a tight embrace. 

“You’ve been so good for them, Peter. They told me that if you kept this up, they could take away the punishments all together!” Anna beamed, taking Peter’s face into his hands. He smiled, blush rising on his cheeks. He was glad that he had been good, he’d really tried; Anna was allowed to come and see him every day as long as he was good. As long as he got his shots without complaining and listened, she could see him.    
Peter noticed something else, too; all she worse was white. All he was allowed to wear was white. He wasn’t allowed to look her in the eyes, oh no, they’d made sure he knew that. He wasn’t… he wasn’t allowed to see colour. By the time the week had finished, Peter was  _ desperate. _ He was desperate to look at anything other than white. He’d stopped looking for a way out weeks ago, but at this point he just wanted to see something else. Any colour,  _ anything _ . Peter could slowly feel himself slipping away, choosing to let everything go and just not be there for long period of time, especially after the shots. They never turned the lights off and Peter quickly lost his sense of time, causing him to panic even more.

He felt.. felt himself slipping away, and there was nothing he could do about it. Anna’s visits were a blessing, and human interaction helped him stay himself. Peter couldn’t tell how far apart her visits were; at this point, he didn’t really care. She was the only true human interaction he had, and he was determined to keep it that way. He imagined her with red hair and blue eyes, and knew that her skin was quite fair. Her voice matched his description of her perfectly.   
Peter didn’t think it could get any worse; that he wouldn’t be able to deal with it if he did.   
By the time the next stage rolled around, Peter couldn’t remember what colour looked like. He was either sleeping or eating, and when he wasn’t doing those things, he was staring off into space or dissociating. He listened to every word they said, barely interacting with Anna at all.

And then, a week and a half later, they cut off his voice with a cloth. A strip of cloth was all it took, tied against his mouth with the threat of ripping his vocal chords out if he didn’t behave. Anna was the only one who was allowed to talk now, and even then he rarely paid attention. She praised him constantly, but allowed him to be punished if he slipped up and talked. The punishments kept getting more and more severe, to the point where Peter couldn’t even find the energy to life his head. All sense of time had been lost. 

The last phase was isolation. 

Anna no longer came to see him. Peter was a shell of himself. The last phase lasted for two weeks. By that point, they deem him ready for trigger words and training. Since Anna had been conditioning him for the first two, putting in the last was a bit difficult. They still managed. Peter was to be a handler, he was told, and would begin training. Whenever he wasn’t training, Peter was put into cryo sleep. While he’d been injected with the serum, HYDRA didn’t want him aging. Over the course of two years, Peter became one of the deadliest handlers HYDRA had seen. He was rarely himself, small glimpses of the boy he used to be peaking through when he wasn’t in the handler mindset. 

Placing the trigger words into the Winter Soldier was almost easier than they had been with Peter. He was broke, if not more, than Peter had been. There was no fighting needed. They told The Soldier Peter’s trigger words, that he was a handler and his mechanic. The Soldier had already gone through training. 

HYDRA’s plan, it seemed, had worked.

They now had two of the deadliest assassins, injected with serum that caused them to not age, in their hands. 


	5. chapter five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy!
> 
> cw: gore, murder, sort of generic murder-y thoughts.

“Weber,” Anna says, snapping fingers at her side. The Handler obeys almost immediately, the shell of whoever he was before standing to attention and moving across to stand behind her shoulder. He doesn’t look up, but he knows that there are two other people in the room, two people who he doesn’t trust. 

“Anna,” the other woman says, something warm and distasteful colouring her tone, sweet and sour like cyanide. “Is he ready?”

“As he’ll ever be,” Anna says. “Have you got the mission details?”

“Yes,” there’s a shuffling of paper, a sound that grates on the Handler’s ears. “Here.”

Anna reaches out to take the folder with a shark tooth smile. “Thank you.”

“Have him ready early for tomorrow,” the woman says. She sounds poisonous, but comforting enough that the Handler feels somewhat at home. “I will meet you in my office and we can see them off together, hm?”

“Of course,” Anna says. “Come now, my dear.” 

The Handler knows that’s his cue, that he goes where she does. Anna starts towards the door, and he goes too. It’s hard, but he manages to ignore the panicked eyes following him. That’s not his problem anymore. 

 

* * *

 

The Soldier wakes up feeling lost. He wakes up most days like that. The Mistress is watching him, tapping blood red fingernails against the rim of a glass. 

“Good morning, Soldier,” she says. Her tone is warm but her eyes are cold. The Soldier is used to that. Her voice is fake anyway.

“Good morning, Mistress,” he replies, because to do otherwise would be impolite and rudeness is punished. 

“Are you ready for today?”

The Soldier nods. He was briefed on the mission almost a week ago. It’ll be freeing to have space to run, he thinks. His first mission with his Handler, and he would be nervous, were he able to feel that anymore.

“Good,” Mistress says. “Drink this, and we’ll go, yes?”

The Soldier nods, complies, because that’s what he’s supposed to do, and drinks from the glass she offers him. “Thank you, Mistress.”

She smiles at him. Her teeth look sharp in the dim light of his cell. “You’re going to do me proud, aren’t you, Soldier?”

He wouldn’t dream of doing anything else. 

 

* * *

 

It’s quite simple, really. He and the Handler are shipped off to the middle of nowhere, armed with guns and knives and a hitlist and they’re sent in with nothing else. The Soldier knows he is expendable, knows that his life doesn’t amount to much anymore, not in the eyes of his superiors.

That’s okay. He is fleeting. His heart will beat for only so long, and death is death no matter how he dies. He is snow melting on ice caps, and the Handler is too. They are temporary, and replaceable.

“We’ll get the security teams first,” the Handler tells him, and the Soldier knows to obey. “And then we can take our time with the main target.”

“Yes,” the Soldier says, and then they go, prowling through desert and empty space, trying to go unnoticeably unnoticed. 

The Handler is like a cat. Spry, and slow, and methodical. Sharp and logical, small enough to get anywhere and inconspicuous to be anyone. If the Soldier didn’t know better, he would be in awe, and probably a bit jealous. It’s impressive in all the worst ways.

The way he handles a gun is smooth and elegant in comparison to the Soldier. If the Handler is a cat, then he is a wolf, dangerous and strong, but vulgar and heavy. Useful as artillery but not much else, good for nothing but fighting. Disposable.

The Handler stops dead, so the Soldier does too, a reflection of a mirror he isn’t looking in. “Ready your gun,” the Handler orders. 

The Soldier does, pulling the sniper rifle onto his shoulder and cocking it. The weapon is familiar in his hands, memories from someone he doesn’t know, and his hands work it automatically. Muscle memory. There are security personnel milling around the whole plot of land, but the Soldier knows who the Handler wants him to take first. 

“Shoot,” the Handler says, and the Soldier does. He knows how to do this, couldn’t imagine living a life where he didn’t, and he sends bullet after bullet into heads, each hitting their mark, all within five seconds of each other.

Blood spray paints some morbid picture, one that is more beautiful than ghastly. Death is as beautiful as life isn’t, and the Soldier never needs the remind. He exists halfway between the two, he thinks, and that is probably the best place to be. Away from the messy tangles that life brings, but safe from whatever cold silence death promises.

“Good,” the Handler breathes out, and the Soldier is relieved. He has done his job well enough for now. And they move onto the next.

That’s the way life goes, now. Life and death and blood. Morning, sunlight, moonlight, and it’s all the same, really. Waking up and blinking, a new day, that’s never really new. He, the Soldier, has blood on his hands now, and it won’t ever come out.

He doesn’t have any feelings about it, whether they’ve been programmed from him or not. The Soldier doesn’t think he’d care.

The Handler gives him another dozen targets until their main objective is no longer protected. The Soldier knows this is his chance to impress him, impress the devil on his shoulder. He shoulders his guns and takes out a knife instead.

The goal is quick and clean, but he’s bored now. He wants to play, to fingerpaint, and if they don’t want him to do that, they’ll stop him.

No one stops him until he is knuckle deep in a chest cavity, digging around till he can feel the still beating heart of their victim. Death is beautiful, the Soldier whispers, part to himself and part to the body before him. Death is beautiful, and it always will be. 

He curls fingers around the heart, squeezing until it bursts. The blood splatters out, abstract art at its finest. The Handler watches him, but doesn’t engage. Somehow, he’s avoided the blood sprays. The Soldier’s own uniform is covered in tacky blood, drying dark red brown and stiff.

“The job is done,” the Handler says, low and monotonous. “Clear up are coming soon. We should be gone before then.”

The Soldier nods. The Handler is right. The Mistress will want him back. Perhaps she’s already waiting for him. It’s a pleasant thought.

 

* * *

 

“You did so well,” the Mistress tells him. She’s waiting for them, for him. “Very good, Soldier.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” the Soldier says. His uniform is coated in blood that isn’t his, and his face is sticky with it too, but no one seems to care. That usually means he shouldn’t care either.

“It is time for you to sleep,” Mistress says, and the Soldier knows what she means when she leads him towards the cryotherapy chamber. He’s long since been afraid of the cryofreeze, but it never gets any easier. Never any nicer, but he can’t always remember what nice means these days.

He falls asleep slowly, feeling his blood solidify in his veins. He dreams of a life that he hasn’t lived for years now, one where he and the Handler exist in an alternate universe full of stardust and moonlight, paved by fallen planets, and the Soldier feels homesick for a home that isn’t his and never was.

The Soldier made peace with that, even when he couldn’t remember his own name. He still can’t, but sometimes it shines through. A past life, slipping through the cracks. Family he never had, air he’s never breathed, and love he’s never felt. He finds himself missing all the things that never were and will always be, things that aren’t his to miss, and yet there’s a gaping hole in his heart anyway.

It confuses him, but it feels like home. The last thing he remembers before his heart rate drops off the face of the Earth is the Handler’s eyes, and how painfully familiar they are, and sometimes he wonders how he ended up here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the radio silence! buck has been struggling with motivation recently, so i thought id just post this chapter now. this fic really fun to write, despite my chapters being horrifically small. theyll get longer... hopefully!
> 
> now six will be done soon, but until then, thank you for sticking with us! i dont know if we mentioned an update schedule at all, but we dont particularly have one. updates will be sporadic at best so please bear with. motivation is a fickle mistress.
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr!](https://spideysstark.tumblr.com)


	6. chapter six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long! it's a bit shorter, but i hope that you all enjoy it.

They’re in cryo for six months before there was a new mission. 

And Peter’s getting twitchy. 

Not  _ twitchy _ per say-- scared, anxious, desperate to get out and go home is more accurate. 

A small part of his brain is saying that he’s making this all up; HYDRA is their only home, after all. Sure, they sometimes kill people, but they have a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Sure, Peter gets punished for talking too much: but he should learn to talk less anyways. 

The other part? the nagging at the back of his head? Says to rely on the memories, that they’re real and they need to leave before something worse happens. 

Peter’s tried. He really has. But Bucky… doesn’t seem to remember. Which is understandable, with all the mind wipes they put him through. He always remembers Peter though, so maybe there’s still some hope? All it would take is a couple memories for the wiping to unravel (or so he thinks.) Peter can’t act for long, not with the guilt eating away at him. 

It comes to a head one sunny july morning. The safehouse is a small cabin on the edge of a small town just east of the Carolina border. It’s the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees and not another person for miles. They could leave now, Peter thinks. Just run off with the money and clothing and not come back. It would be easy enough. Sure, the asset’s arm would cause a bit of a problem, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed by a long sleeve shirt and gloves. For the first time in weeks, Peter feels something akin to hope take room in his heart. This is their chance, their chance to get away. All he had to do was convince Bucky, and they’d be good to go. That part was… harder than it seemed to be. Peter had to be careful; saying the wrong thing could trigger the winter soldier. It could also trigger the default programming which would cause  _ both _ of them to collapse in pain. 

Nothing worked. 

In a split second of horrible decision making, Peter decides to go off on his own. Jamie can’t be hurt if he isn’t there: Anna herself had said that no one else was compatible enough to be Jamie’s handler. 

So he had to leave. If not for his sake, but for his older brother’s. Peter knew that if James ever broke out of the programming he’d be  _ livid _ , but that was a bridge he’d have to cross when the time came. Peter packed a small bag with shaking hands, putting every ounce of his training into use to stay quiet. He didn’t know if James was authorized to punish him, and Peter really didn’t want to find out. 

The sixteen year old left at three forty five on a warm summer morning. 

For the most part, everything had gone well; at least until he got out of the state. When his arm started to burn and itch, Peter should have known. Be he didn’t. He was so focused on getting away, so focused on freedom that he didn’t even realize he’d walked right into HYDRA’s trap. Sending the handler-asset pair far away had been a test. A test to see how loyal Peter was to HYDRA even without the mind wiping treatment. 

Anna had really hoped her young protege would have passed. 

Instead, she called the order to apprehend him, then began setting up for the mindwipe. The process for the handler would be basically the same as for the asset, but with less memory wiping and more memory planting. They’d have to remind Peter about all the good things he did for HYDRA, how he belonged here and, frankly, didn’t have anywhere else to go. Peter was brought in begging, only fighting more when he saw the chair. It took multiple men to hold him down while Anna did the straps, keeping her face a cool mask of disappointment. She had him all strapped in when she realized that Peter had yet to be punished for his actions. They couldn’t have a repeat of this, oh no. Tapping her comm, Anna began to speak of the punishment coordinator. They’d have to punish him severely for this. It was all Anna could do to convince them not to just get rid of Peter altogether and scrap the project. She’d worked hard for this, damnit, and there was no way she was letting it go so easily. 

Anna filled out some paperwork, listed her recommended punishments, and waited. It wouldn’t take long for the paperwork to be filled. The sooner she could get this over with, the better. She didn’t  _ like _ seeing Peter punished, but he’d done something wrong. Anna made a mental note to explain this to him before the punishments began. y minutes later the paperwork came back, all punishments being approved.  Anna sat in front of Peter, who was staring off into space and had tears streaming down his cheeks. Once she was sure she had his attention, Anna began to speak, tone soft and reassuring. 

“Hey Peter. It’s good to see you back. What you did was not nice, and now you have to face the consequences for that. It’s not going to be fun, and they’ll hurt, but this is the only way to teach you to behave. I’m very disappointed in you. I thought-- no, I know I taught you better than this. This way you’ll learn, and we’ll never have to do this again. I’ll see you in a little bit.” Anna let a small smile peak through before she left the room, watching the punishers go in after her. She hadn’t wanted to do this, not one bit, but Peter had failed the test. He had to learn from his failures, after all. Anna entered the observation room, taking a seat beside her best friend Weber.

“It doesn’t look like we’ll have to wipe the asset, thank goodness. He did the job then returned to the safehouse as instructed.” Weber explained, sounded relieved.

“I was just hoping we wouldn’t have to wipe Peter. He’s still so young, and I’d hate to take away those memories from him. But he’s figured out the he’s the asset’s brother, and we can’t have that. I just hope they don’t break him.” Anna said sadly, wringing her fingers together.

“Hey,” Weber placed a hand on Anna’s shoulder, causing Anna to look up.

“Everything will be okay. He knows you care about him, and that you’re trying to do what’s best for him. I saw you going for the less painful punishments. Everything will be fine.” Weber soothed.

Then the screaming started. 


End file.
